The Homestay

When you turn on the television and see those commercials advertising that "for the price of a cup of coffee each day, you can save a poor starving African child's life," you tend to get the impression that all Africans living in rural areas have squalid living conditions, are malnourished, and miserable all the time.  I've spent the last 2 weeks living in some similar conditions in the 3rd poorest country in the world, and while there is obviously a poor food and sanitation situation,  I have seen very little misery, and nothing that resembles the constant pain that Bono and Sally Struthers have been advertising to the West as what dominates Africa.  What I have seen is playing children, hard-working farming families, some of the friendliest hospitality imaginable, and overall one of the most illuminating 2 weeks of my life.

Tuesday morning 2 weeks ago, I awoke with a painful speech-impediment inducing canker sore on my tounge only to find that the previous night's monsoon had swept all my newly washed clothing off the clothesline and into the wet, muddy ground.  All this meant that as we left that day to our Homestay sites where we were going be learning Bambara, the Malian language, and culture while living with a local family, I had no clean clothes and couldn't talk without feeling pain.  Once we hit the road to our villages, I was feeling better.  The driver told us that the five of us going to our site, a town called Marako, were being spoiled since the community had slaughtered 2 goats in our honor.  It only got more exciting as we arrived at the village to see most of the community of 900 people having a whole elaborate welcome party with traditional music, dancing, and welcome speeches.  It was the best possible welcoming.  Afterwards, we were introduced to the families we would be staying with and went off with them to our homes.

In my compound, where the whole extended family lives, I was taken to my home, which is a room with a bed and some pre-supplied Peace Corps-issued goodies like mosquito nets, lanterns, sheets, and 2 buckets, one to hold our pump-water for drinking, and one for us to use as we have our bucket-baths.  The rest of the family, grandparents, parents, children, aunts, siblings, and wives, all live in different houses in the compound.  The buildings are made of cement with corrogated metal roofs, and there are seperate mud-brick and thatched-roof kitchens and storage sheds.  We also have donkeys, goats, chickens, dogs, and a rooster who I think is sick, because rather than a triumphant Cock-a-doodle-dooo! to wake up to, the sound he makes is more like a car engine failing to start.

Within the first day, I had been given a new Malian name: Able Samake, the same name as the family patriarch and the youngest son, who I, in the interest of cross-cultural exchange, have taken to calling Michael Jackson because of his enthusiastic dance moves.  Explaining the significance of his name was difficult, as was getting the family to learn the immense impact Mr. Jackson has had on American pop culture ("Michael Jackson bE donke.  Donke togo Moonwalk.").  Once that had been established, the following days only saw an increase in cultural sharing.  Most of our days have been occupied by learning Bambara and little snippets of Malian culture.  

Some interesting rules of Mali: Never use your left hand for anything involving food or greetings - that hand is saved for post-bathroom cleanup using the teapot-bidet called a "salidaga."  Women never whistle, and men don't at night.  If you dig holes in the ground, you will be thought a sorcerer and regarded with suspicion.  The Earth does not spin - if it did, how come I never wake up on the other side of the room? (Think about it.)  Chairs, first dibs on food, and anything else that requires priority go to guests, and then elders.  Children are very much at the bottom of the pecking order, but that doesn't mean we don't love 'em.  Dogs and any other animals, though, are regularly beaten, or chased into the bathroom while someone is using it.  Tea is drank regularly, and often, and is a very long process that yields about 3 sips per person.  One of these days, I'll post the process here and you can introduce it to your friends and then they will feel so cool to be friends with you and your ethnic worldliness.

Life in the village is fun.  Marako mostly consists of farmers, and that is what most people do all day during the current rainy season.  Nights, I hang out with other PCVs in Marako, or out front of my host father Seydou's butiki, or general store, and socialize with whichever random townsfolk stop by.  Slowly but surely, I am more and more able to carry on small conversations, and the last night there, I was talking about religion in Mali and motorcycles.  Food is another adventure here.  Breakfast is always a loaf of bread slathered in mayonnaise, lunch is rice with a peanut or fish or something else sauce which is occasionally good and usually at least edible.  Dinner has mostly been fantastic and consisting of eggs, french fries, potatoes, or vegetable stew.  It's not well-rounded nourishment, but it's edible and that's good.  I have tried "to," a dish of millet porridge and okra paste which is the national dish of Mali, and it is easily the worst possible food ever.  I didn't even know people could eat things that bad, but I suppose Malians are raised on it, and I give them credit for having stomachs of steel.

On a more serious note, I mentioned earlier that life isn't as bad as people usually imagine.  It's true, though there are problems.  Diseases are plentiful and easily acquired, malnourishment is rampant and babies with bloated bellies are probably the ones who don't live until the life expectancy of 50.  But, the kids play with me and laugh a lot, and while by Western standards they live terribly, you wouldn't get quite that response from them.  One thing I've learned is that those sad looking pictures of unsmiling Malian children are very misleading.  Africans simply don't smile in pictures.  They'll be screaming for me to get out my camera and get all excited, and then as soon as I aim, the adopt the "poor sad African child look" that we all see on TV.  It's actually a little bit offensive how much the West exploits the image of an impovershed Africa to pay for its charities, while ignoring the culturally rich and happy parts of the continent that is full of great people.  How miserable could a people be when they go back and forth for a full minute greeting each other every time they see a friend, and even strangers are waved to with:

-Hi, good morning!

-Good morning!

-How's your day!

-Only peace!

-How's your family?

-They're all fine!

-Yeah!

-Yeah!

Mali is not perfect, and I'm still nervous about the prospect of 2 years here, but I'm sure I will get to the point where I am happier staying than quitting and it will be worthwhile.  I called Dad one night and while he was talking about how I only get one body and nothing is guaranteed, my bed broke, I fell on the floor and lost phone reception.  That kind of irony is the reason I am happy here.  It may not be easy or fun all the time, but it won't be like anything else I ever do.  See you next time, and keep in touch.

Two for one!

I've had more computer time than internet access lately, so here are two blogs in one posting for you:

Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport is really nice.  It looks like what my parents in their somewhat dated stylistic sensibilities would refer to as “space-age.”  Red carpeted floors and a wood paneled cieling make up the interior, which in its airplane hangar-like shape and rows of lights above me that form flourescent trails like cars lit up on a highway at night seem like a stark contrast from what I’m anticipating in approaching days.  This is just one of the many things on my mind as I take a little bit of time to myself to update this blog and tell you about my last few days.

There has been hardly any time to think between meetings, seminars, travling, meeting people and sleeping, the latter being sadly the least frequent.  Monday, I arrived at the hotel downtown, which was lucky for me since it was the national orientation and just about everyone else had to fly here and was already out of their home city.  The first day went surprisingly well, and despite my normal aversion to having to make fridns with massive groups of strangers at the same time, once I realized that everyone was just as new there as I was and just as eager to make friends with the whole group, it was easy to loosen up and “work the room.”

Monday and Tuesday mostly consisted of icebreakers and educational general orientation seminars.  The staff members gave us a general idea of what to expect from life in Mali and how the Peace Corps runs, including little tidbits such as “The Maliaria prophylaxis doesn’t neccessarily give you nightmares, though I had some weird dreams about the local mosque blaring Pink Floyd” and that we should be expecting to eat our delicious millet meals three times a day, but some of the richer familiies we will be living with might splurge on chicken, eggs and spices.  There was a lot more information obviously, mostly running the gamut from inspirational speeches to remiders of protocal and all the ways we can potentially get kicked off the program, but a lot of emphasis was also placed on meeting people.  With 78 of us, the decided to split us in half, which allowed for much more efficient and friendly bonding, and so far, everyone I’ve met here seems to be intelligent, cool and very friendly.  I suppose it makes sense that Peace Corps would mostly be attracting the kinds of people who were outgoing, confident and smart, unlike say, at a college orientation where you could meet some of the best people ever or a room full of kids dumber then a shovel.

Outside of the seminars, we spent a lot of time walking around town, socializing and eating as much expensive and unhealthy food as possible (I think the girl who downed 4 Philly Cheesesteaks in 2 days took the record), all on the free cash given to us by the program directors to spend away our last few days here.  Wednesday, we recieved our yellow fever shots and our first doses of malaria pills (not something I ever really imagined myself having to go through - me taking malaria medicine??)  However, a few hours later, and anxiety begining to set in deeper than ever, we loaded our luggage, got on the bus, and pulled out of the hotel - and hit a parking sign.  So after making sure we hadn’t caused too much damage to civic property right before fleeing the country, we took off to JFK, and then to Paris.

The flight was fairly uneventful, except for seeing Bill Murray boarding our plane to Paris on first class and everyone having a mild freakout, and the plane serving us free wine, though I decided I’d rather let my body max out on the last dependably clean water supply I might have for a while.  And that brings me to here, about an hour from boarding a plane to Bamako, Mali.  I will probably post this once I get there since I don’t feel like paying for the wireless internet, so this entry will already be obsolete, but I’m also not certain what my web-usage schedule will be over there, so I  figure I’ll take advantage of the downtime here.  

On another note, if you want to sent me a package or mail, email me and I’ll give you my address in Mali.  That’s all I’ve got for now so I will abruptly and uncreatively say goodbye for now.

I’ve been here for about 2 days and already, I’m wondering if this whole blog idea is futile or not.  There are so many things to tell and nothing has even happened yet.  As a general overview, we got into Bamako airport on Thursday night without a hitch - and without hardly a wink of sleep in a day and a half - and were immediately bussed to the Peace Corps Mali training village called Tubani So, in Zamabunu (I think that’s what it’s called).  After an amazingly delicious dinner featuring some kind of Malian potato that is some of the best potato dishin’ I’ve had, we mostly grabbed our bags and headed off to our mud huts where I, with my two “hut-mates” went to sleep.

*Sidenote about our training center: Tubani So is in a small town outside Bamako, the capital city.  We all live in mud-brick huts with well-thatched roofs right off of the dusty road to everywhere else.  Everywhere else includes assorted other mudhuts, the dining hangar, various other hangars for meetings, seminars and orientations, and a few sports courts and fields.  

As for lavatories, because I know you all want to know, we use a “nyegen.”  It’s an outhouse...with a hole in the ground...that functions as a urinal, toilet, and shower drain.  That’s right, we have a shower here so that we don’t have to adjust to everything all at once.  But we also have a hole that we squat over and defecate into.  It smells as bad as you think, there are as many flies as you think, it’s just as uncomfortable and paniful on morale as you think, and the only saving grace is that they give us toilet paper here so we don’t have to immediately switch over to using a teapot as a bidet.  But we’re still never supposed to eat or shake hands with our left hand.  Yes, it is that bad.

But all the time I’ve spent outside the nyegen has been wonderfully interesting.  Right now, I’m listening to the noises of the night, which has the standard crickets complimented by clicks, chirps, and squacks of all varieties.  Earlier today, I heard one of the most entertaining bird calls I’ve ever heard, which can best be described as a wood saw cutting a log to the tune of “weeee-awwww, weeee-awwww, weeee-awwww, weeawweeawweeaw!”  I’ve also see some huge millipedes, and one guy said he saw a nice big scorpion on the road, and right now, the dining room I’m in is getting swarmed by giant flying kamikaze termites.  Oddly though, when I’m outside looking around, I’ve seen a lot of trees and bushes not altogether different from those at home, and almost forgot I was in Africa for a little while.  It’s still strange for me to say aloud “I am living in Africa right now.”

As for what we’ve actually been doing, a lot of it has been orientation, telling us what to do here, what to expect from training, etc.  Initially, it was a little bit of general information on medical rules, social customs, the typical orientation stuff.  Our trainers, some of whom are Malians, others actually being current volunteers, have been regalling us with tales of Malian glory, like when one girl who had been stabbed by a rose thorn and did not have the Bambara language skills to communicate the problem accidentally told her host mother that she had “been vaccinated by a tree.”  

More recently, we have been starting to learn Bambara, Mali’s indigenous language which is actually a lot of fun to speak.  It’s kind of the stereotypical African-sounding language, minus the clicks.  We have also been learning the ins and outs offf dealing with “Mr. D.” a.k.a. diarrhea, and his wife, “Ms. C.” whose identity I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on.  We’ve been warned about all the gorey details and potentially alien contents of our stools as a result of various exciting parasites, and now we are all scared to eat or drink anything outside of our safe and protected compound.  The major rule so far is just to clean the hell out of our water and not to eat anything made on the street.  On Tuesday, we leave for “Homestay” where we have more intense language, cultural and skill training while living with a family in a village near Tubani So.  For now, I’m running out of things to think of saying, so I leave you saying a ni walu and see you next time.